Mr. Browning defends his position by an illustration of the use (as also abuse) of symbols spiritual and material; Carlyle retorts somewhat impatiently that in thinking of God we have no need of symbolism; we know Him as Immensity, Eternity, and other abstract qualities, and to fancy Him under human attributes is superfluous; and Mr. Browning dismisses this theology, with the intellectual curiosities and intellectual discontents which he knows in the present case to have accompanied it, in a modification of the Promethean myth—such a one as the more "human" Euripides might have imagined. "When the sun's light first broke upon the earth, and everywhere in and on this there was life, man was the only creature which did not rejoice: for he said, I alone am incomplete in my completeness; I am subject to a power which I alone have the intellect to recognize, hence the desire to grasp. I do not aspire to penetrate the hidden essence, the underlying mystery of the sun's force; but I crave possession of one beam of its light wherewith to render palpable to myself its unseen action in the universe. And Prometheus then revealed to him the 'artifice' of the burning-glass, through which henceforward he might enslave the sun's rays to his service while disrobing them of the essential brilliancy which no human sight could endure."
In the material uses of the burning-glass we have a parallel for the value of an intellectual or religious symbol. This too is a gathering point for impressions otherwise too diffuse; or, inversely conceived, a sign guiding the mental vision through spaces which would otherwise be blank. Its reduced or microcosmic presentment of facts too large for man's mental grasp suggests also an answer to those who bemoan the limitations of human knowledge. Characteristic remarks on this subject occur at the beginning of the poem.
Bernard de Mandeville figures throughout the "parleying" as author of "The Fable of the Bees"; and it is in this work that Mr. Browning discovers their special ground of sympathy. "The Fable of the Bees," also entitled "Private Vices Public Benefits," and again "The Grumbling Hive, or Knaves turned Honest," is meant to show that self-indulgence and self-seeking carried even to the extent of vice are required to stimulate the activities and secure the material well-being of a community. The doctrine, as originally set forth, had at least an appearance of cynicism, and is throughout not free from conscious or unconscious sophistry; and though the theological condemnation evoked by it was nothing short of insane, we cannot wonder that the morality of the author's purpose was impugned. He defends this, however, in successive additions to the work, asserting and re-asserting, by statement and illustration, that his object has been to expose the vices inherent to human society—in no sense to justify them; and Mr. Browning fully accepts the vindication and even regards it as superfluous. He sees nothing, either in the fable itself or the commentary first attached to it, which may not equally be covered by the Christian doctrine of original sin, or the philosophic acceptance of evil as a necessary concomitant, or condition, of good: and finds fresh guarantees for a sound moral intention in the bright humour and sound practical sense in which the book abounds. This judgment was formed (as I have already implied) very early in Mr. Browning's life, even before the appearance of "Pauline," and supplies a curious comment on any impression of mental immaturity which his own work of that period may have produced.
Bernard de Mandeville was a Dutch physician, born at Dort in the second half of the last century, but who settled in England after taking his degree. He published, besides "The Fable of the Bees," some works of a more professional kind. His name, as we know it, must have been Anglicized.
DANIEL BARTOLI was a Jesuit and historian of his order. Mr. Browning characterizes him in a footnote as "a learned and ingenious writer," and while acknowledging his blindness in matters of faith would gladly testify to his penetration in those of knowledge;[[124]] but the Don's editor, Angelo Cerutti, declares in the same note that his historical work so overflows with superstition and is so crammed with accounts of prodigious miracles as to make the reading it an infliction; and the saint-worship involved in this kind of narrative is the supposed text of the "parleying." Mr. Browning claims Don Bartoli's allegiance for a secular saint: a woman more divine in her non-miraculous virtues than some at least of those whom the Church has canonized, and whose existence has the merit of not being legendary. The saint in question was Marianne Pajot, daughter of the apothecary of Gaston Duke of Orleans; and her story, as Mr. Browning relates it, a well-known episode in the lives of Charles IV., Duke of Lorraine, and the Marquis de Lassay.
Charles of Lorraine fell violently in love with Marianne Pajot, whom he met at the "Luxembourg" when visiting Madame d'Orleans, his sister. She was "so fair, so modest, so virtuous, and so witty" that he did not hesitate to offer her his hand; and they were man and wife so far as legal formalities could make them when the Monarch (Louis XIV.) intervened. Charles had by a recent treaty made Louis his heir. This threatened no obstacle to his union, since a clause in the marriage contract barred all claims to succession on the part of the children who might be born of it. But "Madame" resented the mésalliance; she joined her persuasions with those of the Minister le Tellier; and the latter persuaded the young King, not absolutely to prevent the marriage, but to turn it to account. A paper was drawn up pledging the Duke to fresh concessions, and the bride was challenged in the King's name to obtain his signature to it. On this condition she was to be recognized as Duchess with all the honours due to her rank; failing this, she was to be banished to a convent. The alternative was offered to her at the nuptial banquet, at which le Tellier had appeared—a carriage and military escort awaiting him outside. She emphatically declined taking part in so disgraceful a compact:[[125]] and after doing her best to allay the Duke's wrath (which was for the moment terrible), calmly allowed the Minister to lead her away, leaving all the bystanders in tears. A few days later Marianne returned the jewels which Charles had given her, saying, it was not suitable that she should keep them "since she had not the honour of being his wife." He seems to have resigned her without farther protest.
De Lassay was much impressed by this occurrence, though at the time only ten years old. He too conceived an attachment for Marianne Pajot, and married her, being already a widower, at the age of twenty-three. Their union, dissolved a few years later by her death, was one of unclouded happiness on his part, of unmixed devotion on hers; and the moral dignity by which she had subjugated this somewhat weak and excitable nature was equally attested by the intensity of her husband's sorrow and by its transitoriness. The military and still more amorous adventures of the Marquis de Lassay make him a conspicuous figure in the annals of French Court life. He is indirectly connected with our own through a somewhat pale and artificial passion for Sophia Dorothea, the young Princess of Hanover, whose husband became ultimately George I. Mr. Browning indicates the later as well as earlier stages of de Lassay's career; he only follows that of the Duke of Lorraine into an imaginary though not impossible development. Charles had shown himself a being of smaller spiritual stature than his intended wife; and it was only too likely, Mr. Browning thinks, that the diamonds which should have graced her neck soon sparkled on that of some venal beauty whose challenge to his admiration proceeded from the opposite pole of womanhood. Nevertheless he feels kindly towards him. The nobler love was not dishonoured by the more ignoble fancy, since it could not be touched by it. Duke Charles was still faithful as a man may be.
With CHRISTOPHER SMART is an interrogative comment on the strange mental vicissitudes of this mediocre poet, whose one inspired work, "A Song to David," was produced in a mad-house[[126]]. Of this "Song" Rossetti has said (I quote the "Athenæum" of Feb. 19, 1887) in a published letter to Mr. Caine, "This wonderful poem of Smart's is the only great accomplished poem of the last century. The unaccomplished ones are Chatterton's—of course I mean earlier than Blake or Coleridge, and without reckoning so exceptional a genius as Burns. A masterpiece of rich imagery, exhaustive resources, and reverberant sound." How Mr. Browning was impressed by such a work of genius, springing up from the dead level of the author's own and his contemporary life, he describes in a simile.
He is exploring a large house. He goes from room to room, finding everywhere evidence of decent taste and sufficient, but moderate, expenditure: nothing to repel and nothing to attract him in what he sees. He suddenly enters the chapel; and here all richness is massed, all fancy is embodied, art of all styles and periods is blended to one perfection. He passes from it into another suite of rooms, half fearful of fresh surprise; and decent mediocrity, respectable commonplace again meet him on every side. Thus, it seems to him, was the imagination of Christopher Smart for one moment transfigured by the flames of madness to resume for ever afterwards the prosaic character of its sanity; and he now asks the author of "A Song to David" how one who had thus touched the absolute in art could so decline from it. He assumes that the madness had but revealed the poet: whether or not the fiery outbreak was due to force suppressed or to particles of brain substance disturbed. Why was he after as before silent?
It might be urged in answer that the full glory of that vision did not return—that the strength and beauty of the universe never came to him again with so direct a message for the eye and ear of his fellow men. But, Mr. Browning continues, impressions of strength and beauty are only the materials of knowledge. They contain the lesson of life. And that lesson is not given in the reiterated vision of what is beautiful, but in the patient conversion into knowledge and motive of such impressions of beauty—in other words, of strength or power—as Man's natural existence affords. The poet's privilege, as the poet's duty, is not merely to impart the pleasure, but to aid the process of instruction. He only suggests the explanation to disclaim it in Smart's name.